The Blood on His Robes
by turtle-03
Summary: The Bloody Baron has been a silent figure at Hogwarts for hundreds of years. Now he tells his story.
1. Chapter One

  
The Bloody Baron gazed out of a high window onto the Hogwarts grounds. He didn't let himself come up here too often, but he enjoyed the view. He enjoyed being alone. But it never lasted long.  
  
"Baron!" Sir Nicholas burst through a wall. The baron didn't look up. "Baron...sir?"  
  
"Nicholas," he rasped after a long pause. "Surely, after an acquaintance spanning more than five hundred years, you will consent to calling me by my given name?" He kept his back to the other ghost, staring outside still and wishing Nicholas would leave.  
  
"Uh...as it were...with all due respect...I'd rather..." Nick stumbled over his words. Well, the man has always been something of a fop, the baron thought.  
  
"Very well. What petty troubles will you bother me with now?" His expression was stony and his irritation rang in his voice.  
  
"It's Peeves, sir. He's got a pair of first years locked in a broom closet and we can't get them out, sir." Nick wrung his hands and fretted like a woman.  
  
_What am I?_ The baron thought. _A bloody babysitter?_ He smiled a little at his own pun and spun to face Nick at last.  
  
"Lead on, Nicholas. But mind this. If you call me 'sir' once more, by the love of all things magical, you will wish your head was truly detached. Understood?" Nick swallowed audibly and nodded. He left the room as quickly as possible. The baron followed with a scowl on his face.  
  
_This is my existence,_ he mused. _This is my curse.  
_  
**The Year of Our Lord 1348**  
  
Gustave deForet was the only surviving child of a French nobleman and an English maid. His father was a baron and a hard man. His mother was weak and stupid. She was the baron's third wife, chosen on a whim when his first wife died in childbirth and the second was found to be barren.  
  
She was a plain woman, with no remarkable features save her wide blue eyes. The baron, Stefan deForet, didn't care. She was a means to an end, a vessel for an heir. Katherine was her name, but Stefan never called her that. She bore him three children, two girls who didn't live long enough to be named, and Gustave. This pleased the baron. He had the heir he wanted and no worries of marriages or dowries.  
  
Gustave was a strong child, and he pleased his father for eleven years. In the summer of his twelfth year, a message arrived for him from a strange school in the north that taught strange things. Gustave was beaten within an inch of his life. His mother was killed. She had been keeping secrets from her husband. Stefan was a hard man.  
  
The baron died eight years later, on the eve of his son's wedding. Gustave was then the baron, and the next day, Branwyn became the baroness. Unlike Gustave's mother, she was beautiful. And he loved her. 


	2. Chapter Two

  
"Peeves!" the baron shouted. Peeves fell out of the air.  
  
"Y-y-yes...yes, your bloodiness, sir?" he recovered his balance and saluted.  
  
"Let the children go, Peeves." The baron indicated the closet and Peeves immediately began fumbling with the lock.  
  
"NOW!" the Bloody Baron roared, causing all present to flinch. Peeves yelped and finally got the door open. The pale, frightened first years stumbled out of the closet and scurried away.  
  
The Fat Friar patted the baron on the shoulder as Peeves zoomed away.  
  
"Thank goodness we have you around, sir. You have quite a way with him, and goodness knows he won't take any orders from the rest of us. I wonder why he fears you so?"  
  
"If you knew what Peeves knows, you would fear me as well." The baron locked his wide blue eyes on the friar and watched the fat man squirm.  
  
**1348**  
  
Cornflower blue eyes were the first things Gustave saw each morning. A sweet smile greeted him and the first words he heard were "I love you". Branwyn was everything he could ever have wanted. Her flowing hair was a deep, glossy black and her skin was as pale and smooth as new cream.  
  
She was Welsh, but she spoke English perfectly, with a soft lilting accent. She spoke no French though, so Gustave was able to curse at the servants without Branwyn's reproachful stares. She was set upon "gentling" him, and had made a point of weeding out his bad habits since the day they had wed. Gustave sensed there was more behind it than simple annooyance at his foul language or contemptful actions, but he didn't ask. He let her believe that he was becoming "civilized" because it made her happy. He liked to make her happy. She was the joy of his life, his only pleasure in the dreary manor.  
  
This particular morning, he awoke with soft lips upon his own. His mouth curved into a smile and he lifted his hands and plunged his fingers into her silken hair.  
  
"No, don't!" she cried in dismay, pulling away from him, her hands flying to steady her complex coiffure. "Rosalind has just finished and and she'll scold me if I ask her to fix it so soon. Now, get up and dress yourself. It's past 10 and they'll be here soon." She brought him his clothes out of the press as he blinked in the sunlight. _God preserve me_, he thought. _I can't tolerate those ridiculous dandies who call themselves lords._ The other barons in the area had called some sort of meeting, and the deForet manor, being in a central location, was chosen as the meeting place. _Lord, let it be over quickly_. He dressed slowly, watching Branwyn fuss over her hair and remarking inwardly how fine she looked in the rose colored silk he'd purchased a month ago. She hummed softly as she peered into the looking glass._ At least one of us is happy_, he grumbled to himself. He had been up too late the night before and sleep was still heavily upon him.  
  
Gustave was finishing breakfast an hour later when he heard the front gates open and riders enter the yard. Let this be over quickly, he prayed again.  
  
Lord William Stephens was the first to arrive. Branwyn greeted him at the door with a smile. He bent over her hand and kissed it enthusiastically. Gustave appeared behind her and the slight man stepped back abruptly.  
  
"M'lord," he stuttered. "It is a pleasure to see you." Gustave said nothing, but gave a curt nod and turned back to the great hall. William and Branwyn trotted to keep up with him.  
  
The seven other barons arrived within the next hour and the meeting began. Gustave sat at the head of the table and listened as the twits chattered among themselves. Finally, he called for order.  
  
"Now, what exactly are we here to discuss?" He let his irritation show and the other men stared at their hands until Roland spoke up. He was Gustave's nearest neighbor.  
  
"Have you had no news from the villages?" Gustave shook his head. Roland went on, "There is illness in the the country, Gustave. A horrid sickness that kills most that it touches. That is what we are here to discuss." The other barons nodded as one.  
  
"What is there to discuss, gentlemen?" Gustave glared at each in turn.  
  
"What are we to do?" Alain raised his head at last.  
  
"It's obvious, isn't it? We must band together and help those that we can!" William exclaimed. "We must ration what medicine we have and take care of the peasants that have nothing!" He stood and pounded the table with his fist. Gustave stood as well.  
  
"Nonsense! We must do no such thing! We have no obligation for those who will not care for themselves. We are responsible only for ourselves and our own. I, for one, plan to stay in my home and wait until this illness has passed. I have no desire to court Death by mingling with sickly serfs." He sat down again as the room exploded with noise.  
  
"Gustave!" Branwyn was at his side in a second. "You must not do this! What kind of leader are you if you will not put aside your own conceit to do what is right?"  
  
"You understand nothing, woman. Please, leave our welfare to me and go to the garden. I will meet you there when this foolishness is through." He waved his hand at her and failed to see the tears that welled up in her eyes as she ran from the room. 


	3. Chapter Three

  
"Baron! Sir! Peeves is - "  
  
In a flash, the baron was out of his chair, nose to nose with Nick before the nearly-headless idiot had a chance to flinch.  
  
"Nicholas," he breathed. "What is my name?" Nick looked terrified.  
  
"Sir..." Fire flashed in the baron's eyes and fury danced across his face.  
  
"No! _What is my name, Nicholas?_"  
  
"Gustave," Nick stuttered. "Gustave deForet."  
  
The rage vanished from the baron's face. It was like looking at a completely different man than a moment before. He even came close to smiling.  
  
"Did you know, Nicholas," the baron said quietly, "that no one has called me that since the year 1390? Yes, when old Professor Sonoro died. More than six hundred years ago."  
  
Nick's eyes widened as a real smile appeared on Gustave's face, something Nick had never seen before.  
  
"I hope," the baron continued in the same soft voice, "that it won't be another six hundred years before I hear that name again." He nodded to Nick and resumed his seat by the fire.  
  
Nick fled the room, completely forgetting his reason for coming there in the first place. Fierce anger from the baron was one thing. This brief glimpse of humanity was entirely too much to handle.  
  
**1348**  
  
The other barons had gone an hour ago, and Gustave still sat in the council chamber, thoughtfully tracing the grain of the table. The door creaked open and Branwyn entered. Her hair hung loose down her back and her face was red and splotchy. She stood behind Gustave and put her hands on his shoulders.  
  
"You hurt me, husband," she whispered. "To speak to me so..."  
  
"I care for no one but you, Branwyn," Gustave said in a raspy voice. "I'll not risk your welfare for some idiotic sense of duty. I have loved you since I first laid eyes on your face."  
  
"And I you, Gustave. When you were naught but a plain, frightened child, lost in the shadow of a cruel father." She sighed. "Do you not see why I bicker with you so? I see your father in you at times, and it frightens me. He was a cold, unfeeling man who cared nothing for you or anyone else. It would break my heart to see you become such as he was. 'Twas a great mercy that he died when he did."  
  
An old, fierce loyalty to his sire flared up in Gustave's heart, but quickly died out again. What she said was true. His father had been cruel. Every part of Gustave's being rejected the thought of ever becoming like Stefan deForet. He stood and wrapped his arms around his wife.  
  
"I am sorry I spoke harshly to you. Can you forgive your boarish husband for his foolishness?"  
  
"I can, and I will. Will you please consider sending aid to the villages?" Her eyes pleaded with him as she turned her face to his. "It would pain me to see our child raised by a father with no regard for others."  
  
"Oui, mon cherie. I will - " he stopped short and stared at her. "Child? Our child, Branwyn?"  
  
"Oui, my husband. Our child." She placed a hand on her abdomen and beamed.  
  
"A child." Gustave's face lit up and tears clogged his throat. "How long have you known?"  
  
"I have only been sure for a few days. I couldn't find the right moment to tell you, with everything that has been happening."  
  
Gustave clasped Branwyn to him and spun her around the room, laughing joyfully. Suddenly, he stopped and looked seriously at her.  
  
"This is but one more reason that we mustn't come in contact with this plague that is infecting the villages." He held up a hand when she began to protest. "We will send what medicine we can spare, but otherwise, no one leaves or enters the manor. Now, run along and tell that to Mrs. McKenna. I've business to attend to. She nodded and turned to go. He caught her by the wrist and spun her back into his arms, kissing her gently. He pulled back after a long moment.  
  
"Don't overtax yourself, love. And be sure to eat something. You had no breakfast, and the child needs food," he said breathlessly. She smiled again and left him alone. 


	4. Chapter 4

AN: Sorry I'm so long between chapters. This is a short one, but there's more to come soon. Thanks for sticking with me.

**Chapter 4**

The Baron hated Hogwarts. Every smiling, happy child reminded him of his former life, of what could've been. But he had nowhere else to go.

The hospital wing was a frequent stop during his nightly wanderings. He liked to see what trouble the children had managed to get themselves in. Broken bones were the most frequent, but occasionally he would find someone marked by true cruelty and malice. That pleased him. Children were a curse, and this helped him see that.

He waited until after ten, when Madame Pomfrey did her last bed check and retired to her personal quarters. The baron had discovered long ago that the nurse would not tolerate his presence around her patients.

Tonight, he floated quietly through the doors at a little after eleven. The curtains around the beds were drawn and all was quiet. The room was nearly full. _Busy day,_ he mused, looking at each child in turn. A small boy lay on his back, with burns all over his arms and face. _Playing with a fire charm, no doubt,_ the baron thought with a small amount of pleasure. Children couldn't resist the things that were worst for them. The next bed contained a tall blonde girl with tentacles springing from every part of her body. Finally, he came to the bed by the window.

A ragged gash marred the ethereal beauty of this child's face. Bathed in the moonlight, her skin was creamy and her raven hair took on an almost blue tint. Her hands were dainty and delicate; her body was slim and beautiful. He wished her eyes would open. He was sure they would blue.

"_Branwyn_," he whispered.

**1348**

A small round lump had appeared in Branwyn's belly. It couldn't be seen, only felt, but it was there. A child. Someone to carry on the deForet name and run the manor after Gustave was gone. A child with Branwyn's eyes, Branwyn's hair, her smile...Gustave was lost in a dream of a future with his wife and child. He woke each morning with his hand on her abdomen. Nothing could ruin his joy. Except...

Branwyn had a fever. It wasn't life threatening, but she rose later each morning, retired earlier each night, and spent the day feeling weak and out of sorts. She insisted upon going about her daily tasks as if everything were normal, but Gustave could see the color in her cheeks fading a little more each day. Within five days, she was ashen and drawn. He ordered her back to bed when she appeared at breakfast looking as if she would faint at any moment.

A doctor would've been summoned, but every physician in the area had been out among the plagued peasants and none could be admitted into the manor. Gustave would have to tend his wife with his own hands. He prayed helplessly that she might find relief in his ministrations. He prayed for God's touch in his own hands, that his beautiful Branwyn might be well again. He prayed for the baby and the future.

Gustave lovingly undressed Branwyn and slipped her into a cool bath. The fever was raging now, and color had returned to her wan face. But it was too much. She was flushed and sweating. He bathed every part of her with a soft cloth. She screamed as his hand neared her thighs. She was too delirious to tell him what was wrong, but she didn't have to. A bump the size of an egg, purple and hard, had appeared on the inner part of her leg. She had contracted the disease.

Gustave prayed for a miracle.


End file.
